


Sulphur and resin

by CamilleDuDemon



Series: Cut me and I bleed [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alchemy First Aid, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Everyone has feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Lambert has a lot of feelings, M/M, Minor Injuries, Temporary Lung Damage, Whump, spores
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: "You think the plants have somehow germinated inside an ancient laboratory?"Eskel nodded."Seeds and spores can stay dormant for decades", he suggested. Lambert grunted in frustration. He couldn't stand archespores. Their venom was caustic and hurt like hell. He had almost lost an eye to an archespore he had found in the woods near Rivia on his first year on the Path, therefore he wasn't exactly happy with the whole turning of events. He tried to question Eskel a little more, earning a dirty glance in return."How about the climate? Archespores don't grow north of Rivia. And even there, it was an anomaly to encounter some...""Hot springs. They must have found a cave where hot water pools, creating an ideal climate for them to prosper. Hot and humid, with plenty of little creatures to feed on.""Only that now preying on bats isn't enough anymore", Lambert argued, gesturing towards the seemingly gutted carcass of a wolf in distance.
Relationships: Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: Cut me and I bleed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935454
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	Sulphur and resin

"See? Vesemir was right, something does really haunt the caves."

Eskel dismounted with the outmost agility as soon as the first carcass appeared. Bones, mostly, picked out clean. Geralt followed shortly after, crouching down to examine a skull and an incomplete set of ribs.

"Deer", he stated. "A young male."

Eskel nodded. Still on his saddle, Lambert shifted in annoyance and rolled his eyes.

"See any evidence of biting? I can't wait to place my bet."

Eskel huffed out a small laugh.

"Well, it seems like your hypothesis doesn't stand a chance. No bite marks. Nothing that looks like another bloody forktail to me."

"A cockatrice, then. It's not so unlikely to find some prowling around, this time of the year."

Eskel shook his head, picking up the skull and examining it thoroughly. Geralt was already busy with what was left of a wolf nearby.

"No beak marks either, I'm afraid. Wanna bet on something else? Foglet maybe?"

"Please. Foglets are not that voracious. Still betting on a draconid, though. Young wyvern. Something small."

Lambert heard Geralt chuckle in distance. His subsequent pout was, to say the least, eloquent.

"Eskel? Your guess?", he asked, straightening his gambeson as he got up. Eskel shrugged.

"No idea. But I'm not betting on a draconid, of that I'm sure. Not for fifteen bloody crowns, at least!"

He elicited another amused chuckle from Geralt. Lambert cast them both a dirty glance.

"Yeah, sure, mock me if you want, but when we'll come across a wyvern you'll have to pay me up, you pricks", he sneered. Once he had dismounted too, they went straight for a narrow path through the collapsed rock. All around, caves and debris. As desolating as it seemed, Eskel liked the rocky, almost alien landscape surrounding the ancient dwarven mines. Lambert, on his part, hated caves in general; caves could, as the name suggested, cave in easily. Or the stone pavement could collapse under his feet, condemning him to die a horrible death in a fucking hole, with all of his bones shattered to pieces. 

"Shit, I don't like this one bit", he muttered, tying his horse next to Eskel's mare. 

Winter had yet to set in. The air smelled just like ice and snow, but it hadn't snowed so far. Weird. Crazy, almost, since winter in Kaedwen seemed to come earlier and earlier every year.

"Well, seems that none of us owes the other shit. Not a draconid, Lambert. Not a...whatever you were betting on, Geralt. Definitely not a necrophage nor many necrophages", Eskel said, his hand deep into a crack between a couple of sharp rocks. When he pulled it out, his glove was wet, glistening, and it made a squelching sound if he flexed his fingers inside.

"Archespores", he stated, reaching out a finger covered in the sticky substance the plants sprayed when threatened. Both Geralt and Lambert glared at him in utter confusion.

"Archespores? Here? How the fuck did it happen?" 

Eskel shrugged, rubbing his gloved hand against the thick leather of his breeches to get rid of the archespore venom quickly. He grunted when he realized he hadn't been quick enough, his gloves had already discolored all over his fingertips.

"This place is old, Lambert, and it has quite the history. The caves are chock-full of ancient laboratories, both elven and human. Druids, mages, alchemists, elven sages...pick one. I'm sure we're walking straight into someone's lab, mind me."

It was Geralt's turn to object. Not that he didn't trust Eskel but -- archespores? They weren't fitting for colder climates, and that was a well-known fact. Kaedweni winter was the worst he had experienced in his many years of roaming the Continent, the harsh temperatures would have surely been enough to exterminate a small colony of Archespores.  _ Unless _ .

"You think the plants have somehow germinated inside an ancient laboratory?"

Eskel nodded.

"Seeds and spores can stay dormant for decades", he suggested. Lambert grunted in frustration. He couldn't stand archespores. Their venom was caustic and hurt like hell. He had almost lost an eye to an archespore he had found in the woods near Rivia on his first year on the Path, therefore he wasn't exactly happy with the whole turning of events. He tried to question Eskel a little more, earning a dirty glance in return.

"How about the climate? Archespores don't grow north of Rivia. And even there, it was an anomaly to encounter some..."

"Hot springs. They must have found a cave where hot water pools, creating an ideal climate for them to prosper. Hot and humid, with plenty of little creatures to feed on."

"Only that now preying on bats isn't enough anymore", Lambert argued, gesturing towards the seemingly gutted carcass of a wolf in distance.

Eskel shrugged noncommittally.

"We oil the blade and then we go in?", he asked, waiting for his brothers to nod in acknowledgement. As much as Lambert bitched about it, they both nodded back.

***

"Fuck me, you were right all along Eskel. Who would have said that."

Lambert groaned as Eskel's hand landed flat on his stomach, leaving him breathless. Descending into the largest cave had proved itself an hard task, since the vault had caved in, creating many small passages in which they had to crawl to reach the main chamber. They had taken some cat potion, anticipating the pitch dark that welcomed them inside. No one, however, was prepared for the goddamn heat radiating from the small pools - most of which could have hardly been larger in diameter than the length of one of Lambert's arms - or for the humidity that had made every sort of lichen prosper, eating up the ancient décors of a weird mixture between a studio and a laboratory. Geralt found some piece of broken equipment and started toying with it, probably ready to make it a part of the collection of oddities he kept at the castle.

"Elven lab?", asked Eskel, apparently interested. Lambert was the only one who couldn't care less about the  _ rich history  _ of the place, and he made it excruciatingly clear with an annoyed huff.

"Can't say for sure. All the books and the parchment are too ruined to tell. And the equipment too. This for example", Geralt said, throwing the thing he was fidgeting with to Eskel, who caught it with a single hand. "I can't say what it is. Doesn't smell like anything familiar."

Lambert stopped listening to them as soon as Eskel started making assumptions. He rummaged through the miserable remnants of a table until he stumbled upon a bag of --  _ bulbs. _

He groaned. 

"Archespores bulbs", he stated. Both Geralt and Eskel walked closer, inspecting the bag and sniffing its content. Lambert picked up a bulb and squeezed it between his fingers. It was a tad too soft and it didn't screech while being squeezed. "Rotting bulbs. Dead."

Eskel shook his head.

"Better not to risk it. Unless you want to grow your own personal cursed flower, I'd give it a nice shot of igni."

Lambert shrugged.

"Please, be my guest."

Once the bag of cursed bulbs got burned, the three witchers took another look around, but nothing else of interest was in sight. What was left of the former laboratory was just a bunch of racks, shattered equipment and weird, cracked crystals that a very long time before could have activated a portal. Geralt grunted loudly while asking Eskel and Lambert to  _ try and avoid opening up any fucking portal, please _ , stressing the word "fucking" enough so they could take him seriously.

Three minor tunnels opened up at the corners of the lab. One of them still had hinges nailed in the bare rock; the door, however, was long gone.

"All right, three tunnels. Do we split or…?"

"No way! What if they don't converge to a single chamber and only one of us gets the archespores? Where's the fun in that?", Lambert replied, kicking an ancient vial with the tip of his boot.

They ended up crawling in a line through the tunnel with the hinges at its entrance. All of a sudden, the weak scent of archespores tingled in their noses and Lambert, who was crawling into the tunnel with his head low, triumphantly whispered "See? Told you!". Eskel snorted quietly. Sometimes, Lambert was such a child!

He nudged at Geralt, who was walking right behind him, and he chuckled too.

***

"How many can you count?"

Eskel's eyes shone bright in the utter darkness of the cave. They still had cat in their system, which allowed them to navigate that dark world with ease, yet stripped them from the ability of seeing colors. Could be a problem with archespores: different colors meant different levels of challenging. They would have needed to rely on other senses to spot the dangerous ones. Those that were, at least, dangerous  _ for real. _ Aside from their caustic venom, the regular ones weren't that difficult to get rid of. The others not so much.

Geralt's jaw clenched at the thought.

"Twelve", said Eskel scratching the nasty scar on his face thoughtfully. "Two big ones. The others must be their spawn."

"Good. We start with the spawn."

"Agreed. And -- Lambert. No bombs. The caves here collapse easily."

Lambert eyed at him menacingly.

"You think I'm  _ that  _ reckless?"

"I've learned from my mistakes. Remember that tower in Gors Velen? Wouldn't have collapsed on us if you didn't throw a bomb at the alghouls."

"Oh, come on, I was barely a decade onto the Path, I was still learning! I can't believe you're still dwelling on that."

Eskel sighed, shaking his head. The archespores hadn't noticed them yet, since their primary source for getting in touch with what happened around them were the miniscule vibration in the ground that preys and whatnot made while walking, running, lying and so on.

Knowing this by heart, they approached slowly, footsteps light on the rocky ground.

It worked...for a while.

Then, the spawn started to get antsy and the two big ones  _ \- the fucking dangerous ones _ \- stood on full alert. There was no point in trying to sneak up on them anymore. With a court nod, Eskel signaled that it was time to wreak havoc upon the monstrous inhabitants of the caves.

Moving in sync like the well-oiled cogs of a deadly machine, they managed to get rid of the spawn pretty easily, slashing, burning and cutting. Lambert was fuming: one of the plants had sprayed its venom towards him, ruining his gambeson. When he killed the culprit, he even spat on the remains out of sheer spite.

Eskel didn't quite grasp how he had ended up facing one of the bigger archespores alone; all he knew was that Geralt was cursing loudly and Lambert was helping him on his feet, dodging the sticky, caustic venom that was being sprayed at them by a very very pissed archespore.

It wasn't a big deal, though. He had gotten rid of worse infestations on his own when he was working in the South. The plant stood tall before him, hissing, it's bloody appendages twitching, ready to strike. The fight ended up being quite exhausting: momma archespore was determined to live a thrive a while more, but Eskel's stubbornness proved itself to be stronger than her will to live.

However, just as he was about to strike the decisive blow, the plant let out a thick cloud from its gaping mouth, along with an agonizing hiss.

Eskel sneezed as the cloud hit him square in the face. The sound startled Lambert, because he heard him yell "What the hell?" while tearing the last surviving plant to pieces.

Geralt was burning the remains, muttering curses under his breath. He sported a nasty acid burn on his cheekbone, which would have taken a couple of days to disappear completely.

"Relax, your beauty is intact", he mocked affectionately, walking on him from behind and patting gently on his shoulder. The only reply he got was a definitely not amused grunt.

***

They explored the tunnels, looking for some more archespores, if there could have been any.

They found one weak plant wriggling in a tunnel and set it on fire without even engaging in a fight.

Geralt collected some interesting artifacts he had never seen before, relicts of a past that was long, long gone.

Eskel sneezed again a couple of times. Which was odd, to say the least, because the mutations he and all the others had undergone made it impossible for any witcher to catch a common cold. 

"Can you stop? You're getting on my nerves", snapped Lambert while collecting some mushrooms to brew some elixirs with. Eskel scoffed, scratching some musk away from the rocks to reveal what was left of an ancient tiled wall.

"As if I can control it! My nose itches. Maybe there's something in the air…"

"Mine doesn't, but you're right, we should get the hell out of here. It reeks of decomposition and rotting eggs. Makes me gag."

Geralt huffed, stuffing a weird looking ladle into his full pockets, but he agreed nonetheless.

When they finally left the cave, the effect of the cat potion had already subsided, even though readjusting to the blinding, grey light of the late fall was quite hard. Plus, the air felt chillier after having spent so much time close to the hot springs underground. They all shivered, Eskel included. Weird enough: he was exceptionally tempered for Kaedweni harsh weather. He was the only one of them who could sleep under his furs with just his knickers and his skin on, without even being close to the fireplace.

No one, however, minded his shivering.

"Let's get back before we freeze our pricks off", groaned Lambert, already marching towards the horses. Eskel suppressed a fit of cough that was clawing at his throat; he really didn't want to argue with Lambert because he showed all the symptoms of a cold he should never have caught.

On the way back to the keep, Lambert and Geralt were having a passionate conversation about curses and dark magic, and Eskel was grateful for having nothing to say on the matter. His throat was starting to feel sore, as if he had drank acid and sand mixed together. He let out a long sigh. As soon as they’d been back to Kaer Morhen, he would have gone straight for Vesemir.

A bad fit of cough left him breathless, both Geralt and Lambert staring at him in utter confusion. He reassured them with a non-committal wave of his hand.

He recalled the tattered, torn, illustrated pages about archespores in Brother Adalbert's Bestiary. The bigger plants - often called motherplants - were the only ones to produce parasitic spores that developed inside the bodies of the ill-fated hosts within the span of one, two days at most, killing the host in the process. Brother Adalbert, though, had failed to mention that said motherplants could let their spores go with their last, dying wriggle.

Eskel gasped quietly, the icy wind whipping at his raw throat.

Spores. He had inhaled spores. 

He glanced at Lambert and Geralt, now some steps ahead of him, still talking but in a barely audible voice. Lambert was the worst at whispering, so Eskel was able to hear a soft  _ "What the hell is wrong with him? We don't get a runny nose, Geralt!" _ murmured through gritted teeth. He spurred his horse to get to them and the whispering ceased abruptly.

***

Eskel had hoped to feel better, once they had reached the gate of the keep. The problem was -- he wasn't feeling any better. Not in the slightest. 

There was no point in trying to suppress his fits of cough, now, because it felt impossible to. Whenever he tried, his chest started to feel tight and heavy, his heartbeat stumbling and quickening as his lungs got more and more deprived of oxygen. Geralt's and Lambert's concerned looks hurt him deeply.

"S'fine", he managed to mutter as his horse walked through the gate.

He wasn't. Both Lambert and Geralt knew it.

"You're not fine", stated Geralt then, spurring Roach to the stables. "What the hell happened in that cave, Eskel? Are you sure you're not injured?"

Eskel shook his head. He dismounted with an unnaturally clumsy jump, wheezing through gritted teeth.

"Spores", he barely managed to say before coughing again, a hand flat on his aching chest. Lambert rushed to his side, helping him breath with vigorous strokes on his back.

"Spores? As in archespores? Shit. Fuck me. I thought witchers were immune, what the hell?"

Geralt's confused look was eloquent enough.

"I thought it too."

"Fuck. What now? These things  _ kill _ , Geralt."

Eskel was able to articulate a sarcastic "Thanks, Lambert" between a fit of cough and the other. Geralt drew a deep breath, holding the air in until his own lungs started to burn.

"Let me think."

"Then think quickly", Lambert snarled, wiping some blood from the corner of Eskel's mouth and showing Geralt the bloodstain. "Because we're neck-deep in shit, Geralt."

_ Not fucking good. _

"Can't breathe", stuttered Eskel, wheezing horribly. He collapsed on his knees. Without Lambert easing his fall, he would have fallen face first in the hay.

_ Not fucking good. _

***

Time seemed to stretch and contract impossibly at the same time. Lambert looked utterly lost.

"What the fuck are we going to do, Geralt? I won't sit on my ass watching him die!", he harshly snarled, pulling Eskel's head in his lap. Geralt inhaled sharply as he replied "We need to help him expel the spores" as if the statement alone could make any sense. Soon enough he realized that, to Lambert, it didn't.

"Melitele be praised, you're a genius", he sarcastically remarked. Geralt rolled his eyes. Eskel's condition was deteriorating rapidly, his agonizing gasps becoming more frequent and painful to watch.

"I may have an idea. Saw it work for a miner who had inhaled some bad mold or something like that. I'm not sure --"

_ I'm not sure it works for us too,  _ he would have added, if Lambert's gaze wouldn't have prevented him from saying that. Still, his look was dubious enough while he tried to gather some information on the matter, his nervous fingers frantically combing through Eskel’s hair in a futile attempt at soothing him.

"How."

"Long story, I'll tell you later. Roll him on his side, help him breathe. I'll be back soon."

Lambert clenched his jaw, rolling Eskel on his side hastily as per instructions and checking his pulse, cursing under his breath when he found it weak and rapid.

"Geralt --"

"I know. Just make sure that he doesn't stop breathing."

Geralt heard a faint "Easy for you to say!" when he was already sprinting to the castle hall, looking for the ingredients he needed to create a powdered mixture with which harm the spores so Eskel could cough them out. The formula was easy enough to replicate, the ingredients so common he could have found them in any single barrel, crate or storage trunk in Kaer Morhen. It was a brilliant, young healer from Caingorn who had invented it, since the miners of the small realm were often exposed to the harmful molds proliferating in the underground tunnels where they dug for rough minerals and gemstones. Geralt couldn't remember why or how he had learned the formula, since it had happened a very long time before, but he had an exceptional memory for all the things that interested him, alchemy and healing included. As he gathered everything he needed, he couldn't help but hope to be quick enough.

***

The sight of Eskel sprawled on the hay with his head on Lambert's lap and glossy eyes filled with raw panic took Geralt aback when he entered the stables, crushing a powder to a fine dust into an old, chipped mortar he had retrieved from the kitchens. 

Lambert gave him a somewhat accusatory look.

"Took you a fucking long time", he hissed. Geralt didn't reply, it didn't seem appropriate to start fighting when Eskel was on the floor, struggling to breathe. He merely shook his head and crouched at Eskel's side, fine powder coating his now bare hands. 

"Hey", he whispered, waiting for Eskel's golden eyes to focus on him. A particularly loud gasp escaped his dry, white lips as he tried to say something, but Geralt shushed him promptly. "No, don't. Just listen to me, all right? You've got to inhale this. It's a mixture of herbs, resin and sulfur. It should weaken or kill the spores, so you can cough them out."

Eskel nodded. Tried to, at least. Then, with Geralt's help and a huge, rib-breaking effort inhaled some of the powder.

For a long beat nothing happened. Time froze. Lambert's panicked eyes darted from Geralt to Eskel inhumanly quickly.

They kept staring at each other in a tense, anticipating silence, until Eskel started coughing, weakly at first, then harder and harder, spitting out bloody lumps and pinkish froth in the process.

Both Lambert and Geralt tried to ease his visible discomfort, the pain that made him whimper between a fit and the other, stroking his back with vigorous circular movements and telling him he was doing good, that it was almost over. Neither of them had the faintest idea, though.

Eskel spat blood and spores for what seemed an ungodly amount of time, ending up with thick, dark rivulets running down his chin, staining the once white shirt peeking out of his gambeson. After the last horrendous fit of cough, however, his breath started to even out, though it was still ragged and quite loud, an ugly grating sound coming from his chest. He tried again to say something, but both Lambert and Geralt advised him against it. As Eskel caught his breath in eager swallows, they helped him on his feet, supporting half of his weight each. Though as malnourished as all of them after a year on the Path, Eskel had always been somewhat beefier than them. Geralt remembered well how built he was, even before the trials. Everyone in their group looked like starving fawns compared to him.

"Fuck, you're heavy", groaned Lambert, to which Eskel responded with an annoyed grunt. When they finally reached the great hall, where the fireplace was already roaring, Eskel's face still looked pale and weary. His lips were definitely too anemic and the blood that caked his chin and shirt emphasised their sickly pallor.

Lambert gathered all the pillows he could find - the hall still hosted some bunks, those who used to sleep there long gone - and laid Eskel gently on the furs near the fireplace.

Geralt sat at his side, sighing loudly and cracking his sore spine with a satisfied hum.

"Feeling better?"

Eskel took a deep breath and nodded, relaxing against the tower of pillows. Lambert - who had helped him out of his gambeson, now haphazardly hanging from the hilt of an antique sword - still looked pretty upset. 

"Where the fuck is Vesemir?"

Geralt shrugged.

"Don't know. He went to bed early, yesterday, you and Eskel were still playing Gwent in the kitchen."

"Mmmh."

He gave Lambert a questioning brow.

“You want me to find him?”

Predictably enough, Lambert shied away, as he always did whenever he thought he had opened up too much with someone who wasn’t Eskel. He muttered something under his breath, but Geralt guessed it was his peculiar way to say yes.

“All right”, he nodded, “Just give me a moment and then I’ll go look for him. He must be somewhere hunting, though. He has been complaining about the lack of fresh venison the whole week…”

Lambert merely nodded at that. His mind was already elsewhere, focusing on Eskel’s still labored breath, ears straining to carefully listen at every single beat of his heart. Geralt picked it up effortlessly; it was still beating quite fast for a witcher, but beating nonetheless. Another sigh escaped his lips. He decided to avoid Toussaint completely in the upcoming season. He didn’t want to see another bloody archespore for at least one year.

***

The room was quiet except for Eskel’s grunting breath. Geralt slipped in silently: the last thing he wanted was to wake him up. Before he had gotten out to find Vesemir, he and Lambert had checked on Eskel, assessing the damage, finding him with a couple of broken ribs and countless bruises all over his chest and back. If he had bled internally, the injuries had healed on their own, because he had stopped tasting blood on his tongue pretty soon. Still, Lambert was worried sick, and he had merely left his side to chug down some water and take a piss.

Now he was sitting on the edge of Eskel’s bed, pretending to read an old herbology tome he had snatched from the library, but Geralt knew better he wasn’t able to concentrate on a book for more than a few lines before his mind grew too restless.

“How is he?”, he whispered, patting on Lambert’s thigh so that he could make some room for him to sit. The younger witcher shifted slightly, throwing the book over a pile of old furs, where it landed with a muffled thud.

“I s’ppose he feels like shit. He has insisted on climbing the stairs to the bedroom on his own, old stubborn prick.”

Geralt snorted quietly.

“It’s a couple of broken ribs, Lambert, He’ll live.”

Lambert was about to say something, but he grunted and changed the subject abruptly instead.

“What about Vesemir?”, he asked, nudging Geralt in the stomach with his feet.

“Hunting, as I said. I found him near the old watchtower, he’ll be back in the morning. He said that he had told you about the hunt, by the way.”

“I think I wasn’t listening then.”

They fell silent for a while, after that. Lambert bent over to retrieve one of Eskel’s personal books from underneath the bed. Some of the oldest were in an urgent need of rebinding, but he picked up one of the most recent judging by the shiny cover and the pages not yet yellowed irreparably. 

“Sonnets? Thought you weren’t into poetry, Lambert.”

“Mmmh.”

Geralt let him pretend to be enjoying southern poetry for a while. Then, squeezing at his ankle, he announced it was time to go to sleep. Lambert frowned.

“You can go. I’ll stay. Just to be sure he doesn’t choke in his sleep or bleed out to death.”

“I’ve never said we were going anywhere. I take the floor, by the way. Remember where Eskel keeps his spare blankets?”

Lambert’s look of surprised gratitude made something tighten inside Geralt’s chest. It lasted less than a beat, though, because Lambert hated to look like someone who genuinely cared.

“Try that trunk there. It’s where he keeps the linens.”

Geralt did what he was told and he made a decent nest out of furs, blankets and tattered, thin pillows that had never been restuffed. Lambert was checking him out discreetly, looking like a man who really, really wanted to say something but couldn't bring himself to.

Geralt fluffied his pillow. Lambert was still scrutinizing him.

"What is it? Something on my face?", he joked. The younger witcher snorted.

"No. But -- ah, shit, I hate this. Thank you, Geralt. What you did for Eskel --"

Geralt shook his head.

"Don't mention it. He would have done the same for both me and you, he tended to countless of my wounds back in the day. We should sleep, now. It's been a hell of a day."

"To say the least. You can sleep, I'll just -- keep an eye on Eskel."

"He'll be fine tomorrow, you know? Save for a sore throat and a bad headache."

Lambert shrugged. Geralt knew how uncomfortable he got when he was forced to show how much he loved someone.

"I know", he whispered. Geralt didn't push his luck any further. His muttered  _ "g'night, then, Lambert" _ got no reply whatsoever.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Did I really start an exclusively whump series just because I'm a sucker for hurt witchers? Guess I did. Whoopsie.


End file.
